When we were kids, falling down and hurting ourselves was as routine as breathing. We’d tumble, scrape our knees, and carry on without a second thought. Looking back, it’s funny, but back then, it could be downright scary. Whether it was a solo mishap or an audience-worthy spectacle, there was always a tale to tell.
Like that time in Hyderabad when I decided to climb my favourite tree. It was about 11 a.m., and no one else was around. I was wearing a T-shirt and a skirt, the kind that catches the wind and makes you feel like you could fly. I’d just settled on a branch when, whoops, I slipped. The ground rushed up, but then, gravity had other plans. I was suddenly hanging by the threads of my skirt. The branch had snagged it like it was part of the tree’s plan. It was a narrow escape, but it came at a cost—the skirt was practically shredded. After catching my breath, I climbed back up to unpeg the skirt and gingerly made my way down the tree. I dashed home, thankful that nobody saw my impromptu trapeze act. The worst part? That was my favourite skirt. RIP, favourite skirt. We had some good times.
Then there were the constant bruises and scratches. I could never quite pin down where they came from, but they were always there, like little badges of honour. I remember one particularly dramatic incident involving my first pair of glasses. It was back in Hyderabad at the National Police Academy, where I was a bookworm, always reading on the school bus and squinting at tiny print, hence the glasses. One evening, we were running around the parade ground, playing catch. It was dark, and the lighting was dim. I was dashing across the field, and WHAM—I ran face-first into a flagpole. My glasses shattered, and the side of my forehead took the brunt of the impact. Blood everywhere. My friend, who was chasing me, was so horrified he turned into a human apology machine. We all went back to my house, where my mom took it surprisingly well, considering I looked like I’d been in a bar brawl. The doctor patched me up, and I ended up with a permanent scar just above my eye. To this day, I use it as my official “distinguishing mark” on ID forms. “Can you describe a unique feature?” “Sure, check out my flagpole scar!”
But the best was yet to come. It was a typical evening after school, and I was supposed to be studying. But I felt off, like a phone with a weak signal. I got a scolding from my mom for not focusing on my homework, but I just couldn’t. I went to bed early, feeling lousy. In the middle of the night, I woke up with a fever so high I felt like a walking heater. I stumbled to my parents’ room and fainted in their arms. Turns out, I had chicken pox, the kind that required you to stay home for a month. Back in the late ’80s and early ’90s, a fever of 103 degrees was a very big deal—it meant you were really sick. So, no school for weeks!
A week after I got it, my mom got it too. Having chicken pox with my mom was like a vacation in disguise. In those days, families often had just one TV in the house, so everyone gathered in the same room to watch. But since we were quarantined, my room became our own private TV hub. Mom and I watched Threes Company and Amitabh Hits, a video cassette with all his best songs. We laughed until our cheeks hurt and cried during Bette Midler’s Beaches. Honestly, if chicken pox came with this much fun, I would have signed up sooner. It was like a film club, just me and mom, watching sitcoms and movies, sharing tissues and stories.
The only other time I was seriously ill—this was in Kolkata when I was in class IX, I believe—we were living on Ballygunge Circular Road. I got salmonella food poisoning, which was so severe that I couldn’t sit or stand for about 20 days. The weakness was extreme; every time I tried to get up, I’d faint. I fainted so often that I had to be carried everywhere. For about a month, I couldn’t do anything on my own; I was completely bedridden. It was awful. It felt like I had narrowly escaped the jaws of death. It was like I had a close call with the other side.
Despite the bruises, cuts, broken glasses, chicken pox and food poisoning, childhood was a riot. It was a time of adventure, mystery, and laughter. We didn’t always get what was going on, but we sure had a blast figuring it out.
As Oscar Wilde said, “Life is too important to be taken seriously.” And in childhood, we knew how to keep it light, no matter what came our way.
